“Honda’s armed?”
“Nah. Launches decoys, flares. And the pilot’s combat-experienced.”
“Stets’ pilot?” Remembering the ones she knew, this seemed unlikely.
“Got somebody else, for this.”
“Crazy.”
“Prom night, like I said.”
The drone suddenly sprinted forward. “What’s happening?”
“Left-flanking unit saw someone get out with a folded tripod. Pryor or the other one. That’s our red line, the tripod.”
“What are these things?”
“Land mines with legs.”
Grim Tim shifted and sped the Harley up, which had to be coincidental but was still weird, the feed simultaneously giving her a full-on charge through brush and over rocks. “This is a video game,” she said, surprising herself, sincerely wanting to believe it was. “Resolution’s not even that high.”
“Video’s encrypted,” Conner said, “but whatever. Want out of the loop? Save you being any more of a witness. Your call, either way.”
“Witness to what?”
Their drone froze again, this time behind a rock slightly taller than it was. The cam rose, either its legs straightening or a neck, which she hadn’t known it had, extending. They were closer to the truck now. Something darted out of the brush then, from the left, greyhound-legs blurring, toward the truck.
Then exploded, the feed whiting out.
“Going for the tripod with that one,” said Conner, the feed returning, revealing the truck on its side, burning. “Overkill.”
Movement from the right, equally fast, charging the burning truck, the feed whiting out again. All of this in complete silence. “That was two at once,” Conner said, “but the warhead on the MANPADS still hasn’t blown. Now I go in, find it if I can, detonate this one. So I’m partially fuzzing the feed”—its lower half pixelating as he said this. The drone lowered its head or carapace and darted around the rock, toward the burning wreck, most of which was pixelated.
“Why?”
“Save you the trauma,” he said, matter-of-factly, very close to the blaze now, rounding it.
Whiteout.
“Shit,” he said. “Got me.”
“What happened?”
“Heat must’ve reached the warhead. Took me out with it, when it blew. Be precious little of the truck left.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Yeah, but it was whoever the other one was, not your guy. Fire and emergency are hauling ass over here from the airport now, trying to guess what they’ve just seen.”
“How do you know?”
“Got a spotter, at the airport.”
“What about Stets’ plane?”
“Pilot reported seeing explosions on the ground, canceled his approach, heading back to SFO now.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Just the pilot. But we made it look like Howell and the Frenchwoman were with him, when it took off. That was the test. To see if he’d go for it.”
“Who?”
“Pryor, but Cursion signed off on it.”
“They’d try to kill Stets and Caitlin?”
“Ainsley wanted to know if they would. They thought there were three people on board, including the pilot. Pryor and his partner doing anything like setting up the tripod for the MANPADS, that was when we’d move.”
“You know this feed’s still whited out?”
“Sorry,” he said, the feed disappearing, leaving the lower rear rim of the white helmet, black leather below it.
“Where’s Dixon?”
“Headed for a pit stop ten minutes from the airport, get the green off the roof and sides of the van, plus a change of plates. Cursion may assume you’re still in it. Ainsley wanted to see how bad Pryor is, Cursion, or both of them together. No idea what’s going on with that. Cursion was fed the idea that Stets was picking you up there, heading out of the country.”
“And they’d have blown it up on takeoff, not landing?”
“Yep. With you in it.”
“Why would they have assumed the plane would be shot down? Isn’t that kind of drastic?”
“Pryor’s idea. He had a MANPADS. Been trying to sell it on a darknet.”
“How many people did we just kill?”
“One for sure. I saw him. But not Pryor.”
A rig whomped past, in the other direction. She felt the cold now, but part of it was what Conner had told her.
86
Empty Chair
On his way home now, Netherton remembered the breakfast he hadn’t had. An egg sandwich seemed a good idea. He turned off into Chenies Street, where he knew a smaller, less compulsively authentic shop than the one Lowbeer favored. The morning having grown colder, he dialed his jacket up and walked there.
Taking a seat at the otherwise unoccupied counter, he ordered a fried egg sandwich on white toast and a glass of 2 percent milk. As the counter bot left with his order, Ash’s sigil pulsed. “Yes?” he answered.
“What are you doing?” she asked, having, he assumed, no way of seeing him.
“Sitting down for a belated but well-deserved breakfast. I’ve had nothing but coffee since getting up.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” said Ash. “I’ve not slept at all.”
As the bot brought his sandwich and glass of milk, prepared with an inhuman speed that would have spoiled the experience for Lowbeer, he imagined Ash drawing herself a cup of scalding tea from her crusty samovar. “What’s kept you up, then?”
“Eunice’s network. Lowbeer now sees herself in it. Its skills are those she had to acquire during the worst decades of the jackpot.”
“Go on,” he said, biting into his sandwich.
“We don’t yet understand the so-called branch plants. The ones that hadn’t managed to return, to merge with her, before she was taken down. Of her, but not her. They communicate with each other, and with individuals they’ve elected to work with, ourselves included. It feels as if that constitutes an entity. As if there were a long table, Lowbeer says, its either side packed with strangers, and at the head, an empty chair. But it’s a very actively empty chair, one whose intent we can only infer by the actions of those around the table.”
Netherton rolled his eyes, swallowed some sandwich, drank milk. “Like Mechanical Turk?” he asked, recalling Virgil having mentioned a service of his day, monetizing live human intelligence. He took another bite, discovering that Ash’s long-windedness was causing his sandwich to cool. He chewed more rapidly.
“When you’ve finished your breakfast,” she said, “check in with Verity.”
“Where’s the drone?” he asked, around his mouthful of sandwich.
“Clipped to the back of a motorbike, on a Californian highway.”
“And Verity?”
“She’s with it.”
“It’s driving?”
“No,” said Ash. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s disgusting.”
87
Lane-Splitting
If San Francisco was in fact their final destination, they were over halfway there. At least it wasn’t raining, because then her legs would be just as cold, but in sodden jeans. Otherwise, this was just too long a ride, at night on the 101, nothing to see but asphalt and bumpers, illuminated by headlights and taillights. And cold. Conner had gone to check on his day job in the White House. Told her he’d come running if she needed him.
“Verity?” A feed opened. The apartment in London, from the couch, looking into their kitchen.
“Wilf?”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“The 101, between King City and San Francisco. Coming up on Silicon Valley.”